


softly as the morning grows

by fulmentus



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Fluff, for naya, lots of fluff, ongoing saga of santana complaining it's cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulmentus/pseuds/fulmentus
Summary: She feels Santana’s eyes on her then, but Brittany focuses intently on the task at hand, packing snow into a nice sphere between her palms.“What are you –don’t you dare.”Brittany lobs the snowball at her face.
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	softly as the morning grows

**Author's Note:**

> something quick and simple for naya's birthday (missing you always)
> 
> title from: carry me home by sød ven  
> fulmentus.tumblr.com

“This is a terrible idea.”

Brittany smiles to herself, pressing her lips in a line to keep herself from laughing. Santana trudges through the snow beside her, grumbles lowly under her breath, and Brittany has to stop herself from constantly reaching out to grasp her elbow, pull her close, because oh, despite how adorably disgruntled and miffed she looks, Santana _did_ agree to this.

Brittany isn’t forcing her to do anything.

“I’m serious, Britt. It’s _freezing._ ”

And they pause, Brittany bouncing on the balls of her feet while Santana cups her hands around her mouth, breathing into her palms. She’s shivering, shoulders shuddering from the cold wind that blows through them. Brittany rubs a knuckle against the tip of her nose, extends a hand, unable to keep herself from playing with the ends of Santana’s scarf, tucking the corners into the folds around her neck.

Soft specks of snow dust her dark hair, settle against her lashes, and Brittany is struck for a second — what’s a second to the infinity they have stretching out before them? — by how beautiful Santana is. Even when she’s frowning.

Brittany sticks her tongue out to catch passing flecks of snow, just to annoy her, and Santana’s frown twitches into a scowl.

“It’s not that bad, San.”

She scoffs, disbelieving. “’Not that bad?’”

“It could be worse,” Brittany reasons, shrugging a shoulder. She finally abandons her grip on Santana’s scarf and pokes at her cheek with a gloved finger instead, a warmth steadily building her chest at Santana’s feeble attempts to bat her hand away. She continues to prod until a dimple starts to form, Santana failing to suppress her burgeoning smile.

“You’re awful,” she says, rolling her eyes, but they glimmer beneath the overhanging street lamp, pinpricks of the last remaining holiday decorations on the houses around them reflecting in their depths. Her voice is impossibly fond.

“You love me,” Brittany sing-songs, absently tucking hair behind Santana’s ear.

“I—” Santana pauses, lips parted, and her jaw clicks shut, the muscle working for a moment before: “—I can’t even joke and say ‘I don’t.’” She shakes her head. “Unbelievable. I really am a lovesick fool.”

The warmth in her chest bursts, spreading through her limbs, and Brittany splays her fingers across the curve of Santana’s cheek, gently swiping her thumb over the corner of her lips, tracing the soft edge that she has long since memorized.

“That makes two of us.”

Santana’s answering smile is helplessly adoring, and Brittany kisses her just because she can, tenderly, sweetly, lingers in her space as their breath mists in the space between them. She nudges her nose against Santana’s.

“Not so bad now, is it?”

(She doesn’t hear another complaint against the cold for a long moment after that.)

—

Brittany swings their hands between them, motion subconscious, natural, and when she glances to the side, her feet balancing on the edge of the curb, placing one foot in front of the other, Santana’s struggling to hide a smile.

She huddles into her scarf, buries her nose into the fabric, and Brittany — for all the crazy concepts she manages to grasp, to the endlessness of possibility to them loving each other until infinity — doesn’t understand how one look at Santana can make her feel so warm.

(It curls inside of her, shifting and growing, growing, growing, forever expansive.

Every day she wakes up beside Santana, their bodies pressed together, unsure where one begins and the other ends, and Brittany’s somehow a little more in love with her than she was the previous day.)

“I don’t know how you convinced me to take a walk around the neighborhood when it’s basically the arctic out here.”

It’s Brittany’s turn to roll her eyes, and she squeezes Santana’s fingers between her own. “Oh _please_ , Santana, if that were the case, Lima could actually let penguins roam the street.”

Santana considers that for a moment, head canted to the side, before she huffs. Sighs. “Why did we have to stay an extra week?”

“It’s just as cold in New York, San.”

“Yeah, but this is _Lima_. We’re gonna miss dinner with Mercedes _and_ coffee with Quinn later this week.”

“And they understand that we need a little time away from the big city,” Brittany reminds her, patient as ever. She casually drops Santana’s hand, stooping down to the snow-covered lawns lining the sidewalk. “Besides, you were the one that said ‘yes’ when our parents asked as to take care of the house while they took a quick trip out of state.”

She feels Santana’s eyes on her then, but Brittany focuses intently on the task at hand, packing snow into a nice sphere between her palms.

“What are you – _don’t you dare_.”

Brittany lobs the snowball at her face, smirking all the while. She dusts her gloves off as Santana wipes the snow from her face, fingers swiping at the corners of her eyes, expression somewhere between incredulous and betrayed.

“Brittany S. Pierce,” Santana punctuates every syllable of her name with a jab of a finger toward her chest.

“Lopez-Pierce, actually,” Brittany corrects, instinctive.

(It was a whole argument – the last name thing.

They went back and forth for weeks, each having their own reasons for wanting to take the other’s name, but they finally managed to agree on hyphenating, their faces pressed close together, lips grazing.)

Santana’s eyes narrow, and she bends low, scooping her own handful of snow. “You’re on, Britt.”

She tosses the snowball, and oh, her aim is not what it used to be back when they were Cheerios, but Brittany still has to swerve out of the way. She laughs at Santana’s scowl and grabs onto the sleeve of her coat, tugging her close just for a moment.

“Race you home.”

And she darts off, boots crunching through snow and frozen ground underfoot.

The Pierce resident isn’t too far off — less than half a block away really — but it’s a dangerous trek when they’re volleying snowballs back and forth. Cheeks flush and breath misting the air, Brittany ducks and spins out of the way of Santana’s ammunition.

It feels like childhood. Like times long past.

(Sometimes, she thinks back to their days spent on the white sands of the Bahamas, golden rings glinting in the amber glow of the setting sun.

She remembers forever in those moments.

And she can see it again now: a much younger Santana chasing her around the backyard of the Pierce home, a few years later with Brittany’s younger sister thrown in the mix.

It didn’t change much in high school, but it certainly grew more complicated.)

(She couldn’t explain it then, the tingle in her fingers whenever they touched, the flutter of butterflies in her stomach whenever she watched Santana and her sister interact, a natural ease as though they’ve known each other forever.

But oh, Brittany believes she’s always known.

With Santana chasing after her, silhouette suffused with the amber cast of street lamps and holiday fairy lights, Brittany knows for certain: they were always destined for infinity.)

—

They tumble over the threshold of the Pierce home, stomping snow from their shoes and ridding themselves of as much of the remaining snow on their clothes as possible.

Santana makes a beeline for the bathroom, and they take a hot shower together, warming themselves beneath the spray.

Brittany hops out early, more than content to let Santana linger — _I still can’t feel my toes, Britt, or my hands for that matter_ — and dresses in warm pajamas she left in her drawers. She dons a pair of pink fuzzy socks and pads into the kitchen, sliding across the floorboards and brushing her fingers through Lord Tubbington’s fur as she goes.

She hums a familiar melody to herself as she works, and she doesn’t hear Santana when she comes in.

“Hey,” Santana murmurs, wrapping her arms around Brittany’s waist from behind just as she’s adding the finishing touches to their hot chocolate.

Brittany turns in her embrace, and oh, Santana looks impossibly soft under the warm kitchen lights, dark hair still a little damp and falling over one shoulder, the collar of her knitted sweater hangs low, clearly too large for her frame (she must have taken it from Brittany’s closet).

Brittany smiles at the sight of her, offering her a mug in the short distance between their bodies. “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” Santana replies, disentangling her arms from around her, and she grins in return. “Your hot chocolate has always been the best.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Well—” She tips her head to the side, eyes crinkling in the corners, her nose scrunching up as she teases, “—Second only to your mom’s.”

“I can live with that,” Brittany concedes, equally playful.

They settle themselves on the couch in the living room, knees brushing as Santana pulls her legs up beneath her.

“Did you wanna watch anything?” Brittany swipes the TV remote off the coffee table and fiddles with the buttons.

Santana leans her head against her shoulder, takes a quiet sip of her hot chocolate. “Up to you.”

Brittany flicks the TV on, mindlessly flicks through the channels — and it’s late so she’s not expecting too much in terms of entertainment — and she eventually stops on a rerun of an old Christmas film she can’t remember the name of at the moment but it fills her with a certain kind of nostalgia.

(Years and years prior with Santana and her sister camped out in the living room, staying up late as snow piled high outside the window.)

Santana sighs against the side of her neck, breath warm against Brittany’s skin.

Brittany shifts, readjusting so that she can wind an arm around her, Santana slotting perfectly into her side. “Comfy?”

Santana hums.

And she falls asleep less than half an hour later, and Brittany has to carefully extract her half-drunken mug of hot chocolate from her grasp and set it on the table with her empty one.

She pulls the afghan off the back of the couch and drapes it over them both, content to let the static of the TV lull her into the waiting arms of slumber, her lips pressed to the crown of Santana’s hair, her breathing quickly falling into sync with the rise and fall of her chest.

—

“Britt.” There’s a nudge of an elbow against her ribs, one Brittany groans at, feebly shoving at the offending limb. “ _Britt_ , your neck is going to hate you in the morning if you don’t get up.”

Her eyes flutter open at that, squinting at the lack of light. It must be late — or early in the morning — and the soft glow from the Christmas tree that her dad has still forgotten to take down doesn’t help much in the seeing department.

She shuffles against the couch cushions, bobbing her head from one side to the other.

She rubs at the back of her neck, already feeling a dull ache.

Santana blinks at her through the low light, half-awake and sleepy, but her gaze is warm when Brittany’s eyes alight on hers.

“We should head upstairs, huh?”

Santana dips her head, smothers a yawn behind the back of her hand. “Yeah.”

“Alright—“ Brittany slips off the couch, stretches her arms high above her head before offering her hands to Santana. “—Let’s go.”

Santana takes her hands gratefully, allowing herself to be pulled upright.

They climb up the stairs hand-in-hand, stumbling on a few of steps since they’re barely awake as it is. Santana snorts when Brittany runs herself into the side railing, and Brittany doesn’t bother quieting her laugh when Santana clips the corner of the wall at the top of the staircase.

They eventually make it to Brittany’s room, ambling through the hallways in the dim grey-blue light of predawn, and there’s no preamble when they collapse into the bed, wrapped up in each other and swaddled in the comforter Brittany’s kept since high school.

“G’night, Britt, love you,” Santana mumbles, her words running together the second her head touches the pillow.

Brittany giggles, soft and on the verge of sleep. She skates her hand up Santana’s back, tangles her fingers in the strands of hair at her nape. “I love you too, San.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


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